Page 14 of Full Mountie

“Lachlan…”

Fucking hell. “Not now.” No, that’s not what I meant to say. I should say, no, never, but I know deep down the word never won’t cross my lips when it comes to Hugh.

5

Beth

By Friday, I’ve made up my mind that not only do Lachlan and I need to have an adult conversation, we should probably do it sooner rather than later.

Pretending that everything is fine at work isn’t going to cut it. I spent most of last night tossing and turning, my bed sheet twisted around my sweat-slicked limbs as I slipped in and out of filthy dreams featuring both Hugh and Lachlan.

Hugh, at least, I can handle. He passed through my office earlier today and gave me a dirty wink, but other than a quick good-morning text, that’s been our only contact. He seems to have picked up on the fact I need a bit of time to figure out what I want, and I’m grateful for that.

Lachlan…I can’t handle him, at all. I could, until Hugh showed up. I can see now that the unraveling started then. Hugh lit a long-burning fuse, and now two months on, Lachlan’s getting pretty close to exploding.

Unfortunately, after our brief conversation about the PM’s wedding, I don’t see him again. So late Friday afternoon, I open an email window, and then promptly close it.

It would be the height of stupidity to send this message using a government email address. Or really any email address from inside this building.

Instead, I grab a blank piece of paper and a pen.

Lachlan,

From the day we’ve met, there’s been something special between us. I know I can trust you to be a good friend, right? And good friends talk about their problems. Talkouttheir problems.

I don’t want there to be any secrets or confusion between us.

I’d like to see you this weekend. You are welcome to come to my place, or we can meet for coffee. I think we need to talk, and I hope you agree.

Beth

I read it over, then I scrawl my personal phone number and email address at the bottom of the page. I could call a page to take it to him, but he’ll freak out if anyone else’s hands have been on it. Hell, he’s going to freak out enough if he knows I’m the only one who’s seen it. So I carefully fold it up, then wrap it in another piece of paper to ensure the message can’t be read though the envelope I seal it in.

Then I grab an intern to sit in my seat until I get back, and head for Lachlan’s office.

Most of the time, he works at a desk nearby, preferring to be on Gavin’s personal detail as much as possible. And sometimes he works out of the guardhouse at 24 Sussex. But he also has a formal office deep in the basement of Centre Block, where his files are kept and he meets with his officers when he needs private space.

My heels click on the stone stairs as I make my way down there, echoing in the quiet of a Friday afternoon in May on the Hill. Everyone who could get away—either to their local constituency or head off on a long weekend—did. It’s the first really nice weekend, a precursor to the always too-short summer.

Nobody is around.

My heart rate picks up at the idea of finding him alone in his office. I’d give him the letter and maybe we’d get that coffee now.

But when I arrive at his door, it’s closed. I know he’s not done for the day, so I slide the envelope under the door. I can send him a cryptic email letting him know I dropped something off.

I turn to head back upstairs, and collide with a hard wall of muscle.

“Whoa, what’s the rush?” Hugh slides his hands up my arms, and even through my blazer, my skin remembers his touch.

I sway into his body before remembering where we are—then I take a big step back. “No rush.” I take a deep breath. “I was heading back upstairs. I just dropped something off for Lachlan. Have you seen him?”

Hugh shakes his head. “Not in the last hour.” He points to the staircase. “We can walk and talk if you want.”

I give him a grateful smile. I’m not looking to hide anything from Lachlan, but I don’t want to goad him, either.

I want us all to be mature adults about whatever this is, and Lachlan finding me in Hugh’s arms outside his office would be a shitty start to turning over a new leaf.

“So other than saying good morning,” he murmurs as we climb the stairs together. “We haven’t talked. But I’ve been thinking about you.”

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